Fall From Grace
by Star-Forged Steel
Summary: Before he was Pitch Black, he was Kozmotis Pitchiner, the hero of the Golden Age. [Collab with Crystal Peak.]
1. Prologue: Unleashed

**A/N:** This fic is a collab with my amazing sister, Crystal Peak. Without her, this probably wouldn't have been written in the first place!

Contains spoilers from both the film and books. Cover art by SinisterEternity on tumblr.

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**PROLOGUE  
**

**Unleashed  
**

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No light penetrated the darkness of his lair.

The shadows had seen to that. After they had imprisoned him down here—he didn't even know how much time had passed—they had left him to his own devices. But he was no fool. He knew he was a prisoner in his own lair. He could no longer travel instantaneously from one spot to the next as he pleased. He couldn't even find the damned exit! Every step he took, he felt their eyes boring into his back.

His defeat at the hands of the Guardians had been a disgrace. It was no wonder he was being punished for it; his minions had a mind of their own when it came to fear. Especially when it came to _his_ fears.

Despite lingering in the shade, Pitch had always longed for the light in an uncharacteristic manner he never actively acknowledged. Beams that filtered his lair in the past were only a tool to illuminate his path. Wandering up on the surface until dawn was only so he could catch an unwary nightmare or two. Moonlight was just that—a source of light. Or so he always told himself.

To him, the darkness was a welcome refuge from everything the world had denied him. The chance to be feared, the chance to be great. The chance to be _believed_ in. But if he were to be honest with himself (which he never was), light was a tool to keep the fear at bay. The fear that manifested itself when alone in the dark.

So he'd been forced to find other ways to keep himself occupied. For days he'd do nothing but idly wander the twisting corridors, never caring where he'd go. But somehow or other he'd always wind up back where he began, the Globe of Belief mocking him with its myriad of lights. It would always disgust him how brightly those little spheres of belief shone for those _Guardians_. However, being closed off from any other source of light, he would sometimes find... peace sitting at its base.

How ironic it was for the personification of fear to invariably seek out the light.

It was on one such day, sitting at the globe's base as he vainly tried to replicate the black sand, did he notice something strange when his hand collided with Antarctica. ("Figures," he idly commented, rubbing his hand.) His eyes saw the faintest of cracks within the globe's base. He wouldn't have even spotted it if he hadn't looked in that direction.

"Now what do we have here?" He traced the outline with a long finger. "It's some sort of secret compartment..." Normally, he loved a good mystery as much as the next legendary being, but _not_ when they concerned him, and especially not in _his_ lair. Why didn't he know about its existence—in his own home, no less!

It was better than sitting around being unproductive. Having decided thus, Pitch slipped through one of the globe's many spaces, kneeling atop the base as he measured the compartment's size. It seemed too small to contain anything of value. But despite himself, he was curious. He dug the fingernails of one hand underneath the metal, seeking a latch, or some other way to open it. His other hand lay against the hatch, his palm pressing into the cool—scratch that, heated—metal. Wait a second—_heated_?

Startled, he withdrew his hands just as the hatch popped open with a small hiss. He looked down at his hands for a moment. "That was... interesting." Whatever was going on was getting stranger and stranger.

He peered inside the compartment with narrowed eyes, finding nothing but a wooden box nestled inside. His upper lip curled into a sneer. "Is _that_ it?" He'd been expecting something more... well, _more_. Like a weapon to destroy the Guardians, or a tool to help him escape his prison of a lair. Not another... _mystery_.

Sighing, he pulled out the casket and straightened, emerging from the globe to glide a little further away on his lithe legs. He turned it over in his hands, examining it critically. He even shook it—and heard the faint tinkling sound of something metallic from inside.

Suddenly, his curiosity was oddly piqued. The sound of whatever was hidden within was oddly familiar, in an agitating and soothing sort of way. Quite a paradox if he didn't say so himself. But placing his hand atop the lid did not yield the same results with the hatch.

Mildly frustrated, he began to pick at it, his fingers searching for an opening, until he found it—a small, indiscernible bolt. If it hadn't been for the lights from the globe, he would have never seen it. He pried at the rotting wood, his chapped fingernails loosening the rusted bolt agonisingly slow—too slow for his taste. His curiosity to see the casket's contents burned, but he was at a loss why. Why couldn't he remember what lay inside? Why didn't he recall its existence until now? Why did it feel so important to find out?

And why couldn't the damned thing _open_?!

He howled in frustration and hurled the casket away, turning his back to it in disgust. It collided into a wall with a sharp snap of protesting wood, pieces clattering to the ground...

_Ching-a-ling._

Pitch turned back to the broken chest with a grimace. "Typical," he muttered under his breath, fingers groping in the dark for the source of the chime. "Whatever. Let's see what all the fuss was about..."

The shadows around him suddenly writhed.

Like coiling snakes they slithered over his hands, attempting to impede his movements. They formed ropes that bound his wrists, pulling his arms behind his back. He found himself suspended in midair, an impossible weight crushing at him from all sides.

His eyes widened in horror. "_I_ control you! Not the other way around! Unhand me! Now!" But all he heard were incoherent murmurings, just beyond his hearing.

The shadows drew closer, and the muttering grew louder. Thousands upon thousands of eyes blinked back at him, pale, vacant, empty. Their mouths twisted in malevolent grins. Amidst the whispering, he heard a few snickers.

A sliver of fear bubbled in his chest. "Wh-What are you doing? No, stay back! You can't do this to me! I'm Pitch Black! I'm the Boogeyman! I'm not afraid—I _am_ fear!"

Nothing but silence greeted him.

"Fear, you say? You must be mistaken..." a silky, hair-raising voice hissed.

Pitch started. "T-Toothiana?"

A dark laugh followed the first voice. "Ya really didn't think _you_ were in control... didja, mate?"

"Bunnymund?!"

"He must be out of his mind, eh?" the not-so-jolly voice of North sounded.

Soft laughter followed.

Pitch swallowed. "Sandman...?" But his counterpart never spoke—hadn't spoken in centuries. He'd heard his laughter very few times, but it had been so long ago... and it had never sounded quite so disturbing.

"Wh-What's going on? What're you all doing here? How'd you find this place?" Pitch tried to sound braver than he felt. The Guardians must've found his lair, but how? Panic was starting to take hold of him, but he struggled to keep it at bay.

Just when he considered the likely candidate, he felt a vice-like grip on his shoulder, fingernails digging painfully into his skin.

"You can't kill fear, Pitch," a voice murmured against his ear. "We _are_ fear."

And the hand on his shoulder pulled him around so he could see the malicious grin spreading on Jack's face. But it wasn't really Jack—and it wasn't any of the other Guardians, either. He was surrounded by mere mirages—the manifestations of his own fear.

"Enjoying the nightmare?" Sandman's grin was full of teeth. "We made it _just _for you."

Beyond the Shadow-Guardians, Pitch could see more shades, but he couldn't make them out clearly. They spun around in circles, bobbing up and down. But the few that drifted nearby appeared solid, with dangling arms and wispy tails.

With dawning realisation, he knew he was no longer in command.

And then, they rushed him.

Pitch's throat screamed itself hoarse when they tore into him, biting, scratching and clawing at every surface. Lacerations formed on his grey skin with each strike of their insidious talons. And, horrifyingly, the Shadow-Guardians were _laughing_.

"How long has it been since we last heard his screams?" Toothiana clasped her hands together, as if listening to a beautiful melody.

"Too long," Jack replied, his grin growing wider with each cry of pain.

They laughed again in chorus.

"Don't get too excited, mates," Bunnymund cautioned. "We don't want 'im _dead_."

Sandman mock-sighed. "It was fun while it lasted."

"We have no choice," North sneered through his thick accent. "We need the vessel."

Pitch's eyelids fluttered. _V-Vessel?_ he wondered. Why did that sound so damned familiar? He was sure they were talking about him, but... a vessel for what? Hadn't he been used as one once before...? Before when? Was he a vessel... or a tool? No, that wasn't quite right, either. He was... responsible for something? But... for what...?

His mind tried to process the foreign impressions, but the shadows around him didn't give him any chance to. North motioned to them with a sweeping gesture of his hand, and the shades surged over him.

With each trembling ripple that blanketed his senses, Pitch felt as if he were suffocating. In vain he struggled, barely managing to keep his eyes open. His chest burned, his lungs screaming for the oxygen he'd never known until now he needed.

Why was this happening? Why had he lost control over them? And why was he so afraid...?

Light flashed, the sudden illumination startling both the tormentors and the tormented. Inhumane screeches joined in a whining cacophony of pain, and Pitch's body dropped to the floor with a heavy thud as the shadows retreated.

He drew in a sharp breath, clutching his side. Muscles he didn't even know existed flared with every movement. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been in pain like this. Had he ever been physically hurt? He'd never thought it was possible...

The source of the sudden light grew apparent as Pitch's eyes adjusted to the brightness. It was the metallic object from the casket, which he now saw was a silver pendant. It continued to glow, its warm beam intensifying. Every instinct warned him to stay away; the shadows, just at the edge of the barrier of light whistled in a continuous drone. But something inside him, the part of him that felt so strangely, egged him on.

His right hand closed around the locket.

The light was now blinding, far too bright even with the arms he threw up to hide his face. His eyes watered from the pain, his head feeling like it had been cleaved in two. Clutching his forehead, he fell to his knees, but didn't feel his body hit the cold earth. He felt strangely blanketed instead, his senses dulled and muffled.

He opened his eyes, his sight finally focusing on the object clutched so tightly in the palm of his hand. His fingers felt oddly numb around it, as if they were grafted to the metal. But that wasn't what caught his attention.

The lid had somehow opened to reveal a portrait. The face wasn't entirely distinguishable through its scratched surface, but it clearly belonged to a little girl. Long, black hair curled below her shoulders and sad, grey eyes penetrated his soul...

He let out a wail—a long, keening sound of anguish, loss and despair. He wasn't sure why he was mourning, or hurting so much, or why the girl was so near yet so far from his memories, or why he was even _feeling_ so much over someone he didn't even know...

A distant voice full of laughter rang out, tugging at his heart. It seemed to be coming from the locket. Or was it coming from... his _mind_?

"_Daddy..."_

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**To Be Continued**

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**A/N:** We wanted the prologue to be short and simple. Oddly enough, while being written, it kind of... took a life of its own. We hope you enjoyed reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it! Just a friendly warning: this fic will be Pitch-centric, long, and you probably won't find out what happened here in the prologue for a long, long time. But don't worry! We know what we're doing...


	2. Chapter 1: Cost of Living

**A/N:** Took us about a week, but here's Chapter 1. And thank you to all our reviewers! Your reviews were very encouraging and heartwarming. Thank you all so much! Here's hoping that, as vague as this chapter might sound, you'll enjoy it.

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**CHAPTER ONE**

**Cost of Living**

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Timing was everything.

The boy crouched low when someone walked by, keeping to the shadows as he peered around the mouth of the alleyway with wide, grey eyes. The passer-by strode past the grocer's stall and the meat vendor, stopping outside the baker's for a moment before entering the shop.

With bated breath, the boy emerged from the shadows and set off at a slow walk, trying to stay inconspicuous. Luckily, none of the adults paid him much attention, but there were a few children who shot him furtive looks before grinning to each other in amusement.

His face went red but he pretended he hadn't noticed them, biting on his lower lip to keep from saying anything. It was hard not to show he was bothered, but he'd learned that keeping to himself would make them soon lose interest and leave him alone.

By now, he'd reached the alley next to the baker's. It was situated behind the meat vendor and smelled of rotten flesh, but the smell was tolerable. He ducked out of sight, glancing back at where he'd come from, then focused his attention on the bakery's front door.

When the sun reached its zenith, one of the baker's sons usually left with a cart full of goods to sell to other districts. The boy had been observing this occurrence for several days, and so far the pattern had held steady. So he waited, and waited, until a boisterous voice caught his attention.

"Good day to you, ma'am!"

The boy looked up just in time to see a woman emerge. She held a basket laden down with bread, biscuits and other things he didn't know what to call. But the baker's son was nowhere in sight.

He fidgeted nervously, eyes darting from the departing woman, to the front door, then to the meat vendor who was giving him an odd look while plucking feathers off a chicken. The boy was torn between leaving now or waiting for the cart—either option was sure to arouse the vendor's suspicions.

In the end, he decided to wait for a few more minutes before fleeing in the opposite direction, shooting one last furtive look at the meat vendor, who was too busy haggling with a customer to notice. That eased the nervous knot in the boy's stomach, but did little to dissuade it from gurgling every so often.

He decided to head for a less-inhabited area. At least there he wouldn't be as inconspicuous, and he could always try to catch a rat or pigeon and sell it for a few coppers. His feet nimbly stepped from stone to stone, darting out of the way whenever a cart or a swarm of bodies approached.

"Fresh bread! Fresh bread, here! Squire's loaf and serf's loaf alike! Get your fresh rye and barley bread right here!"

The boy stopped in his tracks, pressing his body against a nearby wall as he looked left and right for the source of the voice. Being too short, he scrambled up a barrel and shaded his eyes against the sun's glare until he spotted the telltale baker's cart rolling towards him on its rickety wheels.

A small grin spread on his face.

He jumped down and waited for the cart to pass by, letting some distance get between them before he began to follow at a casual walk. The baker's son was much older than him and could probably outrun him if it came down to a chase. But the boy was counting on him to not abandon the cart—and to not have the maneuverability the boy did when it came to running in a crowd.

The cart soon came to a halt when a few passers-by decided to purchase some bread and biscuits. The boy hovered nearby, eyes on the baker's hands. If he could get a biscuit it would last him a week, but bread was easier to hide. He watched the baker place their wares in baskets, exchange a few coppers...

The boy darted close, grabbed a loaf of bread, then bolted.

"H-Hey! Come back here!"

But the boy had already scampered off beyond reach, his bare feet finding quick purchase on the cobblestones. Around him, bodies surged; most didn't even notice him, given how small he was, but others who had heard the baker's son made futile attempts to snatch him up. The boy ducked, slid and rolled out of the way of each looming hand, stuffing the flat piece of bread inside his tunic. But the thunderous storm of marching boots approaching his location gave him a moment's pause. What was that sound? He'd never heard anything like it before.

"Thief! Thief!"

The cry brought him back to the present with a start. He ducked under a vendor's stall, crawling on hands and knees between unsuspecting legs until he managed to slip into another alley—more like a small crack between two buildings, actually. He lay flat on his belly, anxious not to be seen, as he peered from his hiding spot to see what the commotion was about.

He didn't see much until the throng of people had moved out of the way, pressing up against buildings and each other to get out of the way of whatever was coming. Thankfully, he could see what was happening from the gap between a man's legs.

Row upon row of men marched past in perfect formation. There were four men to a row, and countless more rows that unfolded beyond his range of vision. Each leg rose at the same time as everyone else's, and each hand grasped the hilt of a sword at exactly the same angle. Their boots shone, their gold cloaks billowed, and their uniforms were pristine and immaculate. They moved in perfect unison, as if they were the cogs and wheels of a vast, well-tuned and well-oiled machine.

The boy gazed at them in awe, never having witnessed such a glorious sight. They looked so strong and brave, and so _different_ from everyone else in the city. He longed to know who they were and where they were going. He caught a few snatches of random conversation from the onlookers, but nothing he could understand. Lunanoffs? Fearlings? It all went over his head.

Once the goldcloaks had moved on, he remembered the predicament he was in. He didn't think it'd be safe to leave the alley from its entrance. Some of the vendors were bound to remember him if he ventured out on the streets now. So he did the only thing he could think of. Getting up, he retreated further into the shadows, feeling around the walls for any cracks or ledges he could use to start climbing. He could travel over rooftop for a time until he reached a lesser-populated district.

He dug his nails into a gap in the mortar; pressing his back against the opposite wall, he braced himself before raising both legs at the same time, resting the soles of his feet against the stone. Once he had balanced his weight, he placed his hands by his sides to help support his back, then began to climb.

It took him a while to get to the top (he nearly fell twice), but when he did it was with a gasp of relief. He took a short break to catch his breath, enjoying the warmth of the sun, before resuming his course for home.

— — —

Climbing to a rooftop was bad enough; travelling from rooftop to rooftop was even worse; and descending safely to the ground just had to be the most difficult feat the boy of four years had ever accomplished in his short lifespan. But descend to the ground he did—not at all a simple task, despite how easy the older children made it look. They would scale the walls like little apes, and jump from rooftop to rooftop without even pausing to assess the danger. He didn't think he'd ever try to imitate their techniques—he didn't really see the point in it, either. All he knew was that he had reached the ground in one piece and would never climb again unless it was absolutely necessary.

The southernmost district of Belos was one of the poorest in Toxos, reflected by the state of its inhabitants. Almost everywhere you looked you saw homeless families, crippled beggars, and jaded orphans, as well as a prostitute or two. Infants wailed, children screeched, and adults looked ahead with empty eyes. As the boy walked on in the descending twilight, a group of older children began to fight amongst themselves, beating at each other with sticks and fists. Nervous, he steered towards the opposite direction to avoid them. He had no desire to wind up at the mercy of the resident gangs—he preferred _not_ becoming a stain on the wall, thank you very much.

Turning a street corner, he looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed—but ran into something soft and bony.

"Watch where yer goin', rat!"

He was roughly pushed aside, teetering for a moment before he lost his balance and fell on his rump with a small, "Oomph!"

"Ya mean bird! Didja see the way he look'd? Like a one-legg'd crow!"

The three older boys guffawed loudly. But before he could slink away, the one who had pushed him stamped on his hand with a foot. He winced, biting on his lower lip to keep from crying out. This wasn't the first time he'd found himself in such a predicament, and it wouldn't be the last. But he'd be damned if he gave his tormentors the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

"Now, ya don't wanna have an accident..." The gang member twisted his heel into the boy's wrist. "Do ya?"

"No..." he replied, his voice subservient and meek.

"Good! Then get the hell outta our turf."

He was released, but also kicked in the side by one of the other boys. Thankfully, he was left alone after jumping back to his feet and running away. He hated being weak, but it was the only tactic that worked. He had no desire to be used as their new punching bag. Better to stay out of the way, and remain alone. People were more trouble than they were worth.

He didn't think he'd always been alone, but he didn't remember much beyond this life. His earliest memory was living on the streets fending for himself. He didn't know the names of the streets, or the names of the shops, and he certainly didn't know what city he lived in. No one could be trusted. It was a dog-eat-dog world. You either survived on your own, or died. There were always gangs that could provide protection, of course, but he had no money for that. And he didn't want to join a gang anyway. He'd heard a lot of rumours about what happened to people who got on a gang leader's bad side.

Reaching a deserted alleyway that smelled of sewage and waste, he settled on a bundle of rags. Looking left and right, he made sure no one was looking at him before dipping a hand into his tunic and tearing off a small bite-sized piece of bread. He popped it into his mouth and began to chew slowly, so as to savour the flavour.

"Gerroff me, ya little varmin..."

Startled, the boy leapt to his feet and pressed himself against the opposite wall. The bundle of rags he'd been sitting on rustled and shook. A skeleton of a man looked up at his direction with narrow, beady eyes, his scraggly beard all but gone. He smacked his lips over a toothless mouth and scratched his bare, bloated belly.

"What? Nevah saw a blind man before?"

Feeling bolder at this realisation, the boy took a cautious step closer. "If you can't see, how d'ya know I'm little?"

The man snorted in amusement. "No grown-up's _that_ light."

Despite himself, the boy grinned. He found this blind man humourous. But his amusement turned to alarm when the beggar began sniffing loudly, much in the same way dogs would near food.

"Mind sparin' a piece o' that bread ya've got there? An' don't say ya know nothin'—I can _smell_ it. 'Sides, yer chewin' so loudly ya'd wake a dead man!"

The boy's mouth closed before he could deny it. Hesitantly, he reached into his tunic to break off a piece of bread—bigger than the one he was chewing on. He took a step closer and extended his hand. But the beggar made no move to take it from him; instead, he extended his own bony hand, waiting patiently to receive his portion. Grimacing, the boy took another step closer, dropped the piece into the man's hand, then scampered back to the other wall to keep some distance between them.

After licking the piece of bread experimentally, the beggar grinned toothlessly. "I like the taste o' bread more 'n the taste o' varmin." He tore off a tiny bit and stuffed it into his mouth, moving his jaw left and right to moisten it. "Tch. Had bettah."

Affronted, the boy scoffed. "Yeah, sure." He'd been trying to get his hands on that bread for weeks. Compared to other loaves he'd tried in the past, this was the best he'd ever had.

"No need ta get mad. I'm a picky ol' geezer."

Picky was right. But despite himself, the boy settled down across the blind man and ate a little more, but not too much. He wanted the loaf to last him a few days. As they both concentrated on eating, the silence stretched between them.

"What's yer name, kid?"

The boy hesitated. He didn't know whether he should trust the man or not. Then again, he was blind. It wasn't as if he could reveal his whereabouts to anyone, either. He wasn't stupid enough to sleep in the same place twice.

"Kozmotis," he ground out.

The beggar made a plaintive sound. "Ah... then yer an orphan."

He looked away, fists clenching. How he _hated_ his name. It was nothing more than a moniker that would instantly brand him a street urchin, as someone who didn't belong. World dweller, citizen of the world. One who was of the world, but belonged nowhere. _That's_ what it meant.

"S'bettah than mine."

Now _that_ piqued Kozmotis' curiosity. "What's _yours_?"

Without hesitation, the man said, "Apsyx."

Kozmotis blinked, wondering for a moment whether the blind man had sneezed.

"Means 'soulless'," he added, finally swallowing his second piece of bread. "Sound'd like ya wanted to know... _world-dwellah_."

Exhaling loudly, Kozmotis crossed his arms over his chest and sagged back against the wall, as if he were a turtle trying to huddle inside his shell. Apsyx merely smiled, as if sensing Kozmotis' chagrin, and was about to pop another morsel in his mouth when he suddenly stiffened, craning his neck as if hearing something from far away.

Before Kozmotis could ask what was happening, Apsyx thrust his hands at him, his portion of bread clasped between his fingers. "Take it an' run. _Now_. Ya'll be needin' it more than me."

Flabbergasted, Kozmotis did as he was told. Stuffing the food inside his tunic, he emerged from the alley, looked once over his shoulder at Apsyx, then darted to the other side of the street. He was confused as to why Apsyx would suddenly return his food and tell him to run, but the creeping sensation roiling in his gut would soon be confirmed.

Several individuals scaled down the rooftops, dropping into the alley. Kozmotis couldn't see what was happening, but he could hear their angry voices. Apsyx's wheezing laughter floated over, but it wasn't enough to drown out the sounds that followed. Shuddering, Kozmotis sagged to the ground, screwing his eyes shut at the sickening crunch of metal against bone. He didn't need to see what was happening to know that Apsyx was being pummeled to death, his ragged cries of pain growing weaker and weaker. Eventually, the sounds faded into the background, and the gang moved on.

It was a long time until Kozmotis could muster enough strength to move. He lurched to his feet slowly, torturously, his face pallid. He didn't want to go back, knowing exactly what he'd find. But his eyes couldn't help but glance towards the alley—and fix upon the pool of blood that had seeped beyond, drenching the cobblestones inky black in the moon's muted glow.

He'd barely known Apsyx, but felt sick to his stomach at the blind man's sudden and violent death. He knew grown-ups killed each other every now and again, but it was the first time he'd been witness to such an event, even if he hadn't seen what happened directly. But it was enough—_more_ than enough.

Kozmotis shuffled away on wobbly feet, not getting very far before collapsing outside a hovel. Normally he'd find a more sheltered spot to spend the night, but he was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around his knees and lay on his side, lifting his eyes to the starry sky above. The starfish, so very far away, did little to reassure him and lull him to sleep like they usually would. His mind helplessly wandered back to Apsyx's toothless grin, then the sounds of his anguish…

What was the point of getting close to people, of _feeling_, if they only died in the end? It _was_ better to be alone. At least that way, you didn't get hurt...

* * *

**To Be Continued**

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**A/N:** This was our plan from the start: to have a fanfic set entirely in the past. I'm afraid you won't find out what happened in the present just yet, but rest assured that as paradoxical as some things may sound, there's a reason we have events unfolding like this. And now, time for some background information!

Given the context of Constellations, the Golden Age, and Joyce's illustrations, I've come up with a theory that each constellation is some sort of a government, but I'll reveal more about the socio-political structure of the cosmos in latter chapters; suffice it to say that, for now, Pitch doesn't live in the Lunanoff Constellation, but rather the Pyxis Constellation instead.

Pyxis means "compass" in Greek. Therefore, I felt it appropriate to continue using Greek words for locales. "Belos", the city, means "arrow", much like the arrow found in a compass. Going on from arrow, I then thought of a "bow", which gave birth to the planet's name, "Toxos". It's not a far stretch to use Greek terminology for names either, given Pitch's original name, Kozmotis. Broken down into two words, it would give us "cosmos" and the ending "-tis", which I felt would suit "politis" (meaning "citizen") quite nicely. And since I was running along with this whole "classless citizens are given derogatory names" theme, Apsyx is a butchered version of "apsychos" which does in fact mean "soulless".

/stops rambling


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